


this summer burns long and slow

by whataboutateakettle



Category: Scorpion (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 00:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4542702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whataboutateakettle/pseuds/whataboutateakettle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>In the heat they heal. And also eat way too much take-out.</i> // post season one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this summer burns long and slow

**Author's Note:**

> _"you're giving us the post s1 that we deserve"_ \-- megan _**before**_ she read this but after I complained to her about it for the gazillionth time. I can safely say this wouldn't exist if it wasn't for her. Go shower her with some love. 
> 
> _"it is ur civic duty to give us hope before it is cruelly dashed by canon"_ \-- also megan. When I started this it was in line with where I assumed season two would be starting from, in light of new spoilers I am rethinking that. Please enjoy what is essentially an AU summer fic. 
> 
>  
> 
> >This has been been read and reread by me to the point on nausea, but it has not been betaed. So apologies for any mistakes. Imperfections give you character right? So please pretend that any and all typos are just an oc :)
> 
> >I have no experience with PTSD, nor its treatment. I tried to keep the minor discussion I have of it in line with what I have read on the ever accurate internet and in line with what I feel our chars attitudes would be. I hope none of it is grossly inaccurate or inappropriate.
> 
> >Initially I had hoped for a lot more burning metaphors and symbolism thoughout. But alas. The muse works in mysterious ways. 
> 
> >Thank you to the fandom, on various social media platforms, you have provided me with little nuggets of inspiration and headcanons, without which this whole thing would have been a lot shorter. Hope you don't mind me borrowing them.
> 
> > If you have any questions/comments about things I wrote or didn't write, please comment or find me on tumblr. I'm _always_ happy to chat

********************************************

_**Late May** (4 weeks after Walter’s crash)_

The sun is high and hot and they’re almost done with lunch when they get called in. For a _job_. Cabe may have found a new gig, but they still have bills, and rent, and at the moment, way too much time on their hands.

It was alright when Walter was still in the hospital, and they took turns staying with him. Or even when he was back at the loft, not supposed to move because of his stitches and they were busy rushing up and down the stairs every time he tried to get out of bed. But now he’s walking and talking and trying to find something to do, like the rest of them.

She listens to Walter over the phone while Toby looks at her pointedly across the table, and she hums, mouth full. When she hangs up, he’s already gulping down the last of his soda and she passes on the message before stuffing the last bite of her burrito into her mouth. They need to get back to the garage _a.s.a.p_.

The lunch dates are new. They started with him insisting he owed her a meal - _totally not a date_ \- and lunch was, according to him, the least romantic meal of the day. She has to give it to him, he has a knack for finding good cheap food; taco trucks, and in-the-wall diners, and once, the _best_ ramen she has ever had. They go on weekends mostly, like today, but sometimes end up sneaking out of the garage during the week, returning an hour later with full stomachs, half-empty soda cups and satisfied smiles.

“One-ninety-seven IQ and he doesn’t understand what taking it easy means?” Toby mutters, half under his breath. He stands up first, grabs his trash, and hers, and tosses it into the nearest bin, then follows her back to the truck. She’s means to ask how he thinks Walter is doing, _recovering_ , but he’s moved on already, joking about a food baby named Carlos and she rolls her eyes. She’d warned him not to get the _El Grando_ , but his eyes are perpetually bigger than his stomach, much like his mouth is perpetually bigger than his brain.

*

The _job_ starts with Walter hacking into LAPD servers from the couch in his loft, and ends with Toby dressed as a lawyer, being slammed into a wall by a dirty cop. Two hours later he’s pulling off his tie as she sidles up to his desk. Everyone’s either gone home, or upstairs, or both, and there’s a heavy mix of relief and exhaustion left in the garage. And them.

“You hungry?” She asks, raises both eyebrows in encouragement. It’s been 8 hours since they had lunch, even his stupidly large burrito had to have been digested by now.

“Let me just slip into something a bit more comfortable and we can get out of here,” he grins, winks at her.

She narrows her eyes, considers rescinding the offer, but he’s already on his way to the bathroom in the back, jeans and T-shirt in hand. And she really is starving.

****************************************

The next Monday she arrives back at the garage an hour earlier than usual, like they’d agreed, carrying the supplies she was put in charge of. For a moment she thinks she’s alone, which doesn’t make sense because Walter actually lives here and at the moment, he barely ever leaves.. But the garage is empty, the chill of the night still trapped within the concrete walls, and she drops her things on her bench, and heads towards the kitchen, when she hears voices coming from upstairs, mostly murmurs through metal and cement, but she can tell its Walter and Toby. She can’t make out any words until someone, _Walter_ , raises his voice a little and then it’s _fine_ and _drop it._ She frowns, climbs the first few stairs on her toes to try and hear more. The door to the loft opens suddenly, she hears two pairs of footsteps above her and she jumps down, rushes back to her desk.

“- not a problem -” Walter’s saying, coming down first but taking the stairs slowly, hand on the rail.

“Are you kidding me?!” Toby yelps, rushes down past him before turning around to look up. “Walt, I _know_ what I’m talking about.”

Walter sighs loudly, tries to avoid Toby’s gaze and ends up finding hers. She’s staring at him with one raised eyebrow and too many questions. He cocks his head and she knows he wants an out; she’s just not sure from what, or whether she should give it to him.

“Toby, I’m -”

“ _Morning_ ,” she says abruptly, and both heads whip towards her. She walks up to them with a fun-sized tank of helium in one hand, and a pack of balloons in the other. She wants to know what they’re arguing about, but neither of them look like they’re about to tell her.

Walter grabs the balloons from her hand hastily. “Are we sure this is a good idea? You know Sylvester doesn’t like surprises.”

Toby scoffs, “ _Please_ , I’ve been dropping so many hints, he basically picked out his own cake,” He offers her a small smile before he turns around and skips down the rest of the stairs, “Besides, I’d put money on Paige not being able to keep a secret.”

“Ten bucks, you’re on!” She calls after him, grabs the balloons back from Walter and throws them so they hit him squarely in the back; it’s as least as good as a handshake. She turns back to Walter, who nods at her, a mixture of guilt and gratitude on his face. And exhaustion. It’s not until she looks away that she realises Toby has left, gone to pick up Megan so she can celebrate with them.

She doesn’t say anything though, knows how much Walter doesn’t like to be cornered into conversations. Instead she watches him from the top of her ladder when she’s supposed to be hanging streamers, and over plates of chocolate cake that they’re having for breakfast.

*

Later that afternoon, Toby declines her ten dollars before she’s even offered it; grins at her slyly and tells her to pay for lunch next time.

* * *

 

_**June** _

“What do you mean you and Ralph can’t go?” Tension prickles through the garage, and she looks up from the circuit board on her desk, hand still holding on to her pliers. Walter is frowning; behind him Toby’s narrowed his eyes, suspicious. Paige looks uncomfortable, stares at her shoes for a moment too long.

“But it’s the Jurassic Park _Trilogy_. There’s only eight days before Jurassic World comes out!” Sylvester reminds her. It’s an outdoor cinema thing, and really, that Sylvester would sit through damp grass and countless mosquito bites for the Jurassic Park movies speaks volumes. And she doesn’t really get it, but she’s not about to tell him that. He’s been looking forward to this for months, and he’s gotten Ralph equally as excited.

She’s also not planning to take part in this conversation. What Paige does on her weekends is her own business. She blames Toby, he’s always getting too interested in other people’s lives and now he’s dragging Walt and Sly down with him.

“And why exactly are you cancelling our long-planned Jurassic Trilogy marathon?” Toby asks.

“I’m not cancelling it. You guys should definitely go,” Paige spins around on her heel, promises Sylvester can show them to Ralph another time. Happy focuses back on her work, closes the pliers around the last wire.

“You didn’t answer the question.” Walter pushes from across the room. For a moment she’s surprised it’s not Toby needling for answers, but she bites down the curiosity.

She hears Paige inhale sharply. “Drew is staying in Portland for the rest of the season, and I promised him we would visit as soon as Ralph finishes school.”

The wire snaps.

“You’re going to Portland?” Walter asks, shakes a look of surprise from his face as fast as he can. She catches it though, as she looks up. His voice is flat, unimpressed. Behind him still, Toby’s crossed his arms across his chest, and across the room Sylvester is wringing his hands.

“Only for a week!”

“Try not to get lost on your way back,” she says loudly, can taste the bitterness in her own words. Paige turns to look at her but she looks away, shifts her gaze to Toby. She’s not sure what she expected, but it definitely isn’t the raised eyebrow and tight lips she’s getting from him.

Paige sighs, continues to try and explain. She really doesn’t need to hear it, doesn’t want to hear it. She doesn’t need guilty excuses to cloud her head. She needs more wire, actually, and drops the pliers, moves across to her work bench to find it.

 ****************************************

Just because Paige and Ralph are in Portland, doesn’t mean they all get a vacation.

“Look for anyone who seems paranoid, looking over their shoulder, walking quickly, sweating...” She answers absently, pleased smile on her lips. Until she looks up from her own laptop to find four faces staring at her and she realises the question had been directed at Toby, who’s standing in front of the screen playing the security footage they had _borrowed_.

He raises an eyebrow at her, his lips quirking before he points back at the screen, “Happy’s right. This guy here is a regular Paranoid Pete. He’s trying to avoid attention by walking, not running, but that look on his face is a classic expression of fear and stress. He’s definitely reacting to something suspicious.”

She’s been spending too much time with him, she thinks, grimaces at the thought. Too many lunches; too many take out dinners that end in them both making fun of one late night talk show or another. Sometimes, when they hang out at his place, she finds herself flipping through whatever book is on top of the pile on his coffee table. Sometimes he catches her, and she slams it shut, changes the topic, and pointedly ignores his stupid smug smirk.

“You think he saw them?” Walter asks.

“Oh he saw something alright.”

She looks across to Walter, who runs a hand over his face, blinks quickly, none of which makes him look any less tired. “I’m running a facial rec, hopefully something comes up.”

“Not likely,” Toby shakes his head, “That’s the face of someone who’s been living in a bubble of innocence until now. A boy’s first time is always so memorable-”

“We get it. _Perv_ ,” she says loudly. He looks over and raises both eyebrows suggestively, before moving towards her.

“Not bad, by the way,” he whispers as he leans over her desk.

She looks up from her laptop and stares at him blankly. She does actually have work to do and even if she didn’t she can tell she’s not going to find this conversation nearly as amusing as he is.

“I just have to make sure the protégé doesn’t surpass the master.” He continues, grins down at her.

“Toby, can you please focus?! We have a job to do or do you not want to get paid?” Walter calls loudly, voice ripping across the room.

His grin drops straight away and he pushes himself up from her desk. “Walt, remind me again, _who_ is paying us to find a kid who just witnessed a murder?”

“Do you kids want me to handcuff you together until you sort out your differences?” Cabe says suddenly, the look on his face means he’s definitely being serious. She’d forgotten he was even here, sat down at Walter’s desk studying what little information they had to go on. He’s not even supposed to be here, he’s supposed to be at work, his new work.

Toby glances back down at her, before heading back to the big screen. She lets her eyes follow him, and then looks over at Walter. He’s told them surprisingly little about whoever they’re working for, and it’s more than a little unsettling.

****************************************

They end up seeing Jurassic World alone, by accident. They’re supposed to wait until Ralph and Paige get back; even Sly, who has been wearing a different Jurassic Park T-shirt every day this week, is waiting. But Toby gets the session times wrong for another movie and when they arrive to buy tickets they realise _their_ movie is 70 minutes in and this is the only one running this late.

“I won’t tell them if you don’t,” he says, eyes widening like a kid breaking the rules. She sighs, aware that now she’ll have to see it twice, and nods her head in agreement.

Sometime between the lights going down and him making a point of balancing the giant popcorn bucket on the arm rest between them, she realises that this is the first time they’ve gone to the movies alone. It suddenly makes her more aware of his presence, the way his body is leaned, shoulder pressed against hers, the way he mutters commentary under his breath, and fidgets with his hands unless he has something to eat. He eats popcorn by the handful, too, spilling pieces over both their laps. The bucket is empty before they get halfway through the film, and his fidgeting knocks it down into her lap. She tosses back to him, and it tips enough so that all the greasy unpopped kernels fall over his jeans. He groans, low and quiet, and it’s enough for her to look over at him, face lit grey and green from the screen.

She stands up as soon as the credits start rolling, but he grabs her wrist to stop her and her breath hitches for some stupid irrational reason.

“Hey Happy,” She turns and looks down at him. The lights are still down, so he’s lit only by the screen, but she can see his eyes shine up at her.

“Do you think I give off a Chris Pratt vibe?”

****************************************

They go again, three days later when Paige and Ralph are back from Portland. She sits between Sylvester and Paige this time, a small popcorn all to herself and she finishes it without losing a single piece. Sylvester flinches a lot, and Paige keeps gasping, and she finds herself looking over to where Toby is sharing a bucket with Ralph, both their hands digging in at the same time like they’re searching for prizes.

By the end of the movie, Paige is crying, she wipes her cheeks with one hand, reaches the other one over to find Ralph’s. Happy looks across when she shifts, finds Toby watching her before he widens his eyes dramatically and throws a rogue piece of popcorn into her lap.

****************************************

She arrives to the garage to find Sylvester alone, staring at his blackboard. She vaguely recognises the equation he’s scribbled down, but she’s more confused as to why no one else is here.

“Toby drove Walter so the hospital so he could see Megan,” he answers when she finally calls out loud enough to break his focus.

“I thought he got cleared to drive?” she frowns.

“He was gonna take a cab, but Toby insisted on driving him,” Sylvester clasps his hand in front of him, looks a little uncomfortable with the whole thing. “I saw Megan last night and she said that he hasn’t visited her at the hospital since he got checked out. That was 56 days ago.”

She bites her lip, reminds herself to ask Toby about it later. She herself had seen the copy of Walter’s medical records that Toby had somehow gotten his hands on, he seemed to be fine. Or getting there at least.

“I don’t know where Paige is though, she just left a message that she’d be in this afternoon,” Sylvester adds, even though she didn’t ask.

She shrugs, heads over to her desk, and tries not to label what she’s feeling as relief. It’s not a big deal; it’s just a little easier to breathe when Paige isn’t here. And lately, she’s hasn’t been here a lot.

****************************************

It’s not until Paige corners her in the back of the garage that she realises she actually has been avoiding her. Not that she really knew she was even doing it; they’ve been working together without any issues, they all hang out together without any issues. Well many issues. But now Paige is looking at her with wide brown eyes and a nervous smile on her lips and it’s all Happy can do not to push past her and get out.

She glances around to see if there’s anything she can use to interrupt whatever this is about to be, but she has nothing except the rolled up blueprints in her hand. Finally she tightens her lips into whatever half-smile she can muster, and looks up, waiting for Paige to speak first.

“Hey Happy,” she starts, her smile growing but not quite meeting her eyes. “I know you’re busy but I was wondering if you could maybe watch Ralph on Friday night? It’s just a few of my friends from my night classes are having a get-together and I was hoping-”

“No problem,” She says, feels the wave of relief wash over her and it makes it easier to smile as she nods.

“Thank you!” Paige presses her hands together and looks almost as relieved as Happy feels. Which doesn’t make sense, why wouldn’t she want to hang out with Ralph? “I’ll, uh, I’ll let you finish what you’re…” Paige trails off, gesturing to the prints in her hand, before taking a step backwards.

She’s half turned around and Happy’s halfway through exhaling the breath she’d been holding when Paige suddenly whips back towards her.

“Hey, are we okay?” she asks, pointing at the space between them.

She shrugs, shakes her head. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

Paige nods. “It’s just that… I feel like I should expect a wrench to be thrown at me at any moment,” she says, a nervous lilt to her voice like she’s trying to make a joke of it. But then her nervous smile is gone. “Have I done something? Because whatever it is I-”

“Look,” she stops her before she starts apologising, “I know you want to just go back to before but it doesn’t work like that. I can’t just-” She catches herself, takes a deep breath. “I just need some time.”

Paige looks confused. “Time for what?”

She sighs, hates Paige has this way of making you want to talk to her, that she’s been spending enough time with Toby that she’s getting a better read of herself, that everything else is in a steady slow crumble around them. She’s been ditched once in her life, and she made sure that it never ever happened again. But she’s not about to have this conversation with someone who’s somewhere else more than she is here, someone who still has one foot out the door. She’s definitely not about to hold out a hand to someone who might let go.

There’s a noise and they both turn, see Toby and Sylvester coming back from whatever recon mission Walter had sent them on. Sylvester is complaining about something, but Toby is plainly not listening. Instead he’s gazing at them intently, his gaze flicking between Paige and her like he’s hoping their faces alone would tell him what had just happened. Which, knowing him, maybe it would.

She takes the chance to escape, moves past Paige as fast as she can and heads back to her desk so she can actually look at these prints properly. Behind her she can hear Paige huff a little as she realises she’s lost her; it’s only a matter of time before she’ll try to have this conversation again.

****************************************

When Paige shows up on Friday night with Ralph, his backpack swung over the shoulder of her fancy blazer, Toby gives her a pointed look, before crossing the garage to stand next to her. “You didn’t tell me you had babysitting duties. So Paige finally talked to you?”

She looks up at him, narrows her eyes a little. She’s not sure what he knows about her conversation with Paige, but she knows she doesn’t want to talk about it. He recognises the look on her face though, and promptly clamps his lips together.

Sylvester was just leaving, on his way to visit Megan apparently, but now he’s talking animatedly about something that’s on Ralph’s t-shirt and Paige looks amused if a little lost.

“Y’know,” Toby speaks up again, his tone a little softer now, “If you want to talk about Paige -”

“I don’t.”

He pauses for a moment, and she thinks he’s going to drop it, but continues anyway. “She’s not going anywhere. Neither is Scorpion. We might need some work, but we’re all staying.”

It’s both what she needed to hear and the furthest thing from it. Scorpion is barely recognisable right now. Their jobs are different, Walter is different, Cabe and Paige aren’t here half the time, meaning that they’re stuck in this weird time period that isn’t Pre-Paige and Cabe, but isn’t after them either. She doesn’t want to think about Scorpion, because it just reminds her that something is off. That Toby and Walter can’t talk without biting each other’s heads off, that Sylvester is wringing his hands more often, that they still don’t know exactly where their money is coming from.

She sighs, pushes that train of through out of her head. “Are you staying?”

He doesn’t reply and when she looks up he’s frowning at her, like he can’t believe she asked him that.

“Are you staying for dinner or what?” She asks again.

His expression soften, and his lips quirk a smile, and if he’d looked at her for another second she’d be smiling too. “Depends,” he grins properly then heads over at the rest of them. “Hey Ralphy-boy, whaddya feel like for dinner: raw burgers or the Uncle Toby special?”

She rolls her eyes, calls out after him “Don't get your hopes up, Ralph! The Uncle Toby special is two-minute noodles!”

* * *

 

_**July** _

Toby’s crouched down in front of the set up, and she’s trusting him not to mess this one up. He pulls a lighter out of the pocket of his awful cargo shorts and turns to grin over his shoulder at them as they’re lined up against the wall.

“You guys ready?!”

“Are we sure this is a good idea?” Paige asks. Her arms are wrapped over Ralph’s shoulders as she pulls him closer to her. “Homemade fireworks seem-”

“It’s fine,” she reassures her at the same time as Toby calls back. “Relax! We’ve done it before!”

Paige just looks confused and exactly zero percent less worried. Happy catches Ralph’s gaze and he smiles at her but says nothing. The kid’s smart enough to know when to keep a secret.

She hears Walter and Sylvester reassure her one more time as she turns her direction back to Toby who is leaning closer to the box. And then there’s a loud hissing noise.

“Oh-kay! That’s burning fast. Make way!” Toby calls out, running back to them.

He crashes against the wall space next to her just as the first firework goes off. She’s watching the sky intently, even though she knows what’s coming; the order, the colors. She’s spent all day on this.

“Good job,” he whispers into her ear, hand resting on her shoulder for a moment but he moves it before she can shrug it off herself.

She smiles, still not looking at him, “I had a good assistant.”

They watch the fireworks in silence after that, and she tries to ignore the familiarity and her itch in her hand. She sneaks a glance up at him, barely tilting her head, and he’s staring up at the sky with a smile on his face.

Her fingers twitch of their own accord, and she feels her chest tighten a little so she has to look away, back at the sky, back to the bright lights.

She added a bonus at the end, a secret, and when a rough outline of a scorpion lights up the sky, everyone cheers and laughs and she takes in the sounds and the sight as the lights fade and fall. She doesn’t even notice he’s leaning closer to her until he speaks.

“Happy Fourth of July,” he says, his voice a low drawl like he means it just for her. And when she looks at him she finds his gaze. It’s half hopeful and half questioning and she’s seen it in his eyes a dozen times and she knows what he’s hoping for and she knows what the question is, she just doesn’t know if she can answer either just yet.

Finally she offers him a smile, wider than she’s really feeling right now and punches his shoulder. It’s harder than it needs to be, but not hard enough to hurt him, and as she meets his gaze one more time before she walks away she can tell he understands.

****************************************

“What took you so long?” she mutters as she holds the door open for him to enter her apartment.

It’s been a long day, a hot day, and definitely a weird day and she’s been looking forward the familiar comfort of watching a shitty movie with him. She probably could’ve started without him, but she found herself waiting listlessly in her heat trap of an apartment. She’s usually able to deal with heat, but right now she’s wearing her shortest shorts and a tank top and its 9pm.

“Sorry,” he replies, frowning for a moment before grinning at her and raising the bag in his hand. “I come bearing snacks though.”

She jerks her head towards the couch, and heads back in front of him, drops herself down and folds her bare legs under her.

Toby drops himself next to her, reaches into the bag and pulls out a party-sized bag of Doritos. She instinctively grabs at them, because yes Doritos are exactly what she’s craving right now. She’s pretty sure the other thing in that bag is a six-pack of beer and she’s proud of her choice in friends for a moment.

But he pulls the bag back out of her reach and she frowns.

“Wait, what’s wrong?”

“Give me the chips -” she starts, ignoring his question and trying to climb over him to reach them. She’s not in the mood for his games; she wants to curl up into a ball or wrap herself around something soft and warm but it’s too hot for either of those.

“Happy,” he says, his voice serious and when she sits back she realises he’s not joking. “I can tell something’s wrong. Tell me and I’ll give you the Doritos.”

She glares at him.

“You don’t even have to share them with me.”

She moves her gaze to the chips, still held out behind him. Then sighs, “I saw my dad today.”

He nods, hums a little, waits for her to continue.

She sighs, already feeling like she’s going to regret this. “He wants to take me out to dinner for my birthday.”

“That’s nice. He wants to celebrate with you-.”

She feels a prickle on the back of her neck when she realises he doesn’t get it. She assumed he would, without reason, she just, she thought he’d get it. “There’s nothing to celebrate.”

She’s staring at the screen now; there’s nothing to look at, it’s just the menu screen. But she can’t look at him. She doesn’t want to give him any reason to start a discussion because there’s nothing to talk about just like there’s nothing to celebrate.

He doesn’t say anything though, which surprises her. And a couple of seconds later, the movie starts, he must’ve found the remote, and the bag of Doritos lands in her lap.

****************************************

Paige comes in in a flurry and Happy watches her from her work bench. There’s familiar white and red material sticking out from her tote bag, and she looks tired, flustered.

“Walter was looking for you. Said you weren’t answering your phone,” she says after a while, giving Paige a while to catch her breath. She seems like she needs it.

“Is Ralph okay?” Her eyes widen, and she digs through her bag to find her phone, “I was – uh – I was just -”

“If you’re gonna make something up, you’re gonna have to be faster than that.”

She doesn’t mean it to come out at harsh as it does. She’s been trying to feel more easy around Paige, trying to convince herself there aren’t going to be any more surprise exits. “Ralph’s fine; they’re upstairs.”

Paige exhales, looks relieved. She looks at her phone in her hand, nods her head like she’s gearing up for something. “I’ve taken some shifts back at the diner.”

“Your old job?” Happy tilts her head a bit, narrows her eyes.

Paige nods again, “That’s why I’ve been so… busy. I haven’t told Walter yet, I didn’t want him to think I was…” she waves her hands a bit, lets her voice trail off.

She makes herself react slowly, goes through her words before she actually says them out loud. “We could all use a little extra funding right now. And you’ve got Ralph,” she says, offers her a slight smile. She can’t help but feel like she’s part of the reason Paige has been keeping this a secret.

Paige looks utterly relieved, like she expected to get yelled at, not understood, and Happy feels even worse. “It’s just temporary, while we all get back on our feet, right?”

She bites her lip, nods back at her, and wishes she could feel surer about everything in front of them.

****************************************

She gets to the garage early; plans, _hopes_ to make herself busy with something before everyone else starts arriving and making a fuss.

But when she walks in there’s already a cupcake on her desk, unlit candle stuck in the top. It’s not much of a puzzle who put it there, because Toby is leaning against her work bench, thick book in his hands. He looks up when he hears her come in, closes the book and grins, ear to ear.

She moves closers slowly; eyeing the cupcake like it could go off at any moment. By the time she’s standing behind her desk, bag dropped next to the cake, he’s stood directly in front of her.

“Now, I know you don’t like to make a big deal out of today, hence the tiny cake,” he says, nodding down towards the cupcake with a satisfied smile. He’d probably been sitting on that one for a while.

“Are you done?” she asks flatly.

He starts to nod and she feels a wave of relief. Maybe he would let her be.

But then he cocks his head, and looks at her and she knows what’s coming before he even opens his mouth. And she feels foolish for even thinking she could escape him.

“Have you talked to your dad yet?”

She sighs, wishes she’d never told him about it. She’s wished that a few times since she’d actually opened her mouth about it. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

He frowns, leans a hand down on her desk so that his eye line matches hers. “Happy, it’s the day his daughter was _born_.”

She pauses, looks down to gather herself, before looking back at him. “And the day his wife died.” She walks away from him before he can say anything else.

*

She can tell by the way he turns his head every so often, mouth open like it’s already wrapped around a syllable, that he wants to say something. He keeps biting it back though, closes his mouth and exhales loudly through his nose. She grips the steering wheel a little tighter, annoyed at his loud breathing, annoyed that Walter decided to send them all the way across town to plant some more bugs without telling them why.

She’s staring up at a red light, counting the seconds so she can predict when they’ll be able to continue, when she finally hears him speak.

“So, when you said you didn’t want any presents -”

“I meant it,” she doesn’t even bother to turn to him. She doesn’t do birthday presents, she doesn’t do birthdays _full stop_. And yet every year he tries to wrap something in a neat little bow for her, tries to get the others in on it too.

“Okay, but you don’t even know what it is yet.”

“Thanks but no thanks, Doc,” she says as the light turns green. She slams her foot down a little too hard, and he grumbles something and reaches up to the handle above his head.

*

He’s been hovering by her desk for as long as she can take, and when she finally glares pointedly at him he feigns ignorance, looks around him like there’s someone else she could possibly want to hurt.

Eventually he drops the act; just hold both hands up, “What if you just… look at it. Just let me show you and then you can decide.”

“And then you’ll drop it.”

He nods solemnly, “I swear. No more presents.” She sighs, wipes her hands on the towel next to her and stands up. She thinks she hears him mumble _this year_ under his breath, but she ignores it.

He points towards the back door, leads her outside to where all their cars are parked.

Toby stops, turns around to face her. “What would happen if I asked you to close your eyes? Thought so. Okay, wait right here. And hold this.” He reaches into his back pocket and shoves something into her hand before he runs around behind Walter’s car, which hasn’t moved in months.

“What -” she mutters and she looks at her hands and finds a key. A bike key. “Doc, if this is what I think it is, I’m gonna -”

Suddenly, he reappears, pushing an old motorbike towards her by the handlebars. Well, one handle bar. She’s staring at it as he takes his time to get to her. It’s falling apart, there’s duct tape around the engine, and she’s willing to bet it wouldn’t even start. One of the tires is flat; the whole thing is brown with rust. It’s a kind of beautiful she doesn’t expect other people to get. But when she looks at it she doesn’t see the rust, or the age or the broken, she sees how everything should be, could be.

“So, what do you think?” He asks, and she pulls her gaze away from the bike, where’s she definitely not already trying to figure out which belt it would need.

“This is an original KZ900,” she says, looking at him. Does he even know what that means?

He nods at her, looking pretty proud of himself, and if she wasn’t so focused on the bike she might roll her eyes, “Early 70s. You said you wanted to rebuild one of these. If anyone could turn a piece of junk -”

“This is not junk, this is a like a _perfect_ machine I just need to-” she stops herself and looks at him before looking back at the bike. So this was his plan, letting her fall in love with it before she let him actually give it to her. And she doesn’t like birthday presents, but she already loves this bike. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know,” he says like there’s something funny behind it all. But she can’t find anything funny about any of it, rather she’s feeling almost overwhelmed by how simple it is for him to make her feel so open. Without thinking she steps over, wraps her arms around his waist and presses her cheek to his chest, feels his own arms wrap around her tightly.

“Thanks,” she mutters, and she’s not even sure he can hear her, but she can feel his hands run up and down her back gently.

“Happy,” he says softly, but he’s dipped his head down so he can hear him clearly, “For what it’s worth, I think you should call your dad. I know you don’t think today can be a good day, but it _should be_.”

And he’s saying something about pain and catharsis and new memories until she leans away from him, her hands gripping his shirt at the waist and looks up at him. He’s gazing at her like he’s trying to figure out what she’s really thinking, concerned that he’s pushed too much, or not enough.

What she’s thinking is that she can remember telling him about working on a bike like this years ago, before Paige and Ralph and Cabe, before he was single again, before they were _friends_. She’s thinking that he’s right about her dad, and probably about the new memories. She’s thinking she could kiss him right now, would barely have to move her hands to pull him down to her.

She could kiss him right now and mean it.

She could. And that’s exactly why she doesn’t.

*

She stands next to the bike, runs her hand along the ripped leather seat as she calls her dad, tells him maybe they could go to dinner after all.

Her dad picks her up, takes her to a little old diner halfway to Anaheim. It’s family-run, he explains, been around for decades. They do great pie. It was her mother’s favorite.

She stops for a second, looks around and takes it all in. She wonders what it was like nearly thirty years ago, whether her mother had a favorite booth, whether she’d come here when she was pregnant. When she looks back at her dad he looks worried, and she smiles at him, as much as she can. She wonders whether he’s ever been back since.

They get seated, and end up both ordering the same thing. And later, after she thanks the waitress when she slides a piece of pie in front of each of them, she finds her dad looking at her. He reaches into his pocket and pulls something out and lays in on the table in front of her: a candle and a lighter.

“The last birthday I spent with you, you were too young to blow out the candle,” he says, pauses for a moment and looks down at the table. He huffs a quiet laugh and look back at her, “You kept trying to grab it, actually. You liked the flame. I had to keep holding you back.”

She doesn’t say anything as she takes the candle, sticks it into her pie and lights it. She can’t remember the last time she blew out a candle, the last time she made a wish to a birthday cake, the last time it wasn’t impossible.

“Thank you,” she says slowly, lets herself smile.

“You know,” he starts, he seems hesitant to continue but he places his hands flat on the table and looks back up at her. “Your mom and I came here after we found out she was pregnant. She was - _we_ were so happy. This place, it has so many old memories but I think it could stand to make some new ones too. I thought today would be a good day to start.”

Happy looks at him, mouth full of pie, as she recognizes what he’s saying, how familiar it sounds. Her dad, she’s realised this year, is a lot like her, and maybe they’re both working off the same advice.

* * *

 

_**August** _

“What’s up with you and Walt?”

She’s been trying to decide whether or not to ask him about this for weeks now. Partly she’s not sure if she wants to hear the answer. She’d tried to ignore whatever weird feud they’ve been having, but it’s almost every day now, words thrown across the garage, aimed to sting. Sylvester’s getting uncomfortable with it. Hell, she’s getting uncomfortable. She’s seen Paige try to talk to them both, together and alone, but she hadn’t gotten far.

And now Walter’s sent them on this stake-out, and neither of them really know what they’re looking for. She watched as Toby tried to push Walter for an explanation before they left, again, and she watched as Walter pulled rank, again. And she’s watched for the last hour as Toby has been especially fidgety.

Toby drums his hands on the top of the steering wheel. “Professional disagreement,” he says, looks over at her to meet her gaze, “I’m the professional and he disagrees.”

She narrows her eyes at him; she’s not in the mood to play games, but something tells her he’s not either. “Maybe you should give him a break-”

“Do you know what the symptoms of PTSD are?” He asks suddenly, cutting her off. His hands have stopped drumming, are now gripping the wheel tightly.

She opens her mouth; she could probably recall a few of them but honestly, she'd have to think about it. Which she hasn't.

He stares straight ahead as he continues talking, “Insomnia, mood swings, risk-taking, irritability, avoiding behaviours associated with the trauma,” he recites them almost mechanically.

“He hasn’t driven a car since the accident,” she says, finally realising what it really meant. She’d noticed that he hasn’t been driving driven, but he’s always thrown them an excuse that seemed valid enough, a distraction that was pressing enough, so no one really asked him why.

Toby nods, finally turns to look at her and she sees, in the dim light, that his eyes are glassy. “I’m getting seriously worried, and he’s dismissing the whole thing. Or trying to. Which, by the way, is another sign of PTSD.”

She wants to ask why he hasn’t told her, told all of them, but she already knows. Same reason they don’t know exactly what happened when she helped Walter years ago. Walter is incredibly private about his vulnerabilities, and they all try to protect that the same way they try to protect him.

The tablet in her hands pings, and she looks down, sees that the equipment she’s set up in the alley across the street is reading something. “Someone’s gone out the back door. Two guys. Video and audio is recording.”

“Anyone we know?” Toby reaches out, angles the tablet in her hand so that he can see it as well.

She taps the screen to patch the feed back to the garage. “No, but maybe Walter does.”

****************************************

The tension in the garage is unbearable, making everything feel tight and suffocating. Or maybe that’s just the throbbing pain in her head. He’s sat in front of her, tending to the cut on her forehead and she inhales sharply as his fingers touch her skin. He’s trying his best to be gentle; she can tell by the way he’s holding his breath.

He’s been quiet since they got back and while the silence is kinda nice right now, when there’s still a pounding in her head, she wishes he’s make some stupid crack about it all. Anything to break the sticky feeling of guilt in the room. She’s been shoved to the ground more than once tonight but it’s the air in here that’s making her feel dirty.

She winces as he smooths the butterfly bandage to her forehead, but she keeps her eyes closed until he finally exhales heavily. He’s looking down, his fingers smoothing down the edge of the dressing on her forearm. His knuckles are bruised, the skin scraped, and she stares at them, focuses on his hands like they’re holding her down.

“You have a mild concussion, but it should feel better in a few hours. That cut’s gonna sting for a while, and I want – I’ll need to redress your arm tomorrow.”

He pauses, swallows forcefully; his eyes flit up to hers just for moments before he turns around to pack up his medical gear, meticulously folding everything into the bag.

“You should be relieved,” a voice comes from above her and she looks up to see Walter holding a bottle of water in front of her. But his steely gaze is directed at Toby.

Of course. Toby changed the plan, couldn’t keep his mouth shut, messed up spectacularly. Impressively, almost.

Hell, _she’d_ be pissed off if he wasn’t also the reason she was sitting here with a headache and not a bullet wound. She’d be pissed if the whole situation hadn’t been like playing Russian roulette.

Toby nods his head slightly, but doesn’t say anything, finishes gathering his gear and zips up the bag. The sound rips through the silence and she winces a little again. For a moment she thinks this is how they end the night; guilt wrapped in resentment, inside a heavy sigh.

But then Walter takes a step closer. “Toby, are you even listening, you can’t be so reckless and ignore -”

Toby stands up and straightens so quickly that for a moment the whole room starts swaying in front of her. She squeezes her eyes shut as he replies; the words too hazy but his voice is harsh, defensive, it rips through the air like a boom. The pounding in her head gets worse.

She opens her eyes, focuses just in time to see Walter gesturing to her like she’s a piece of evidence. He’s saying something about people getting hurt, but the noise and the tension is making it harder for her to focus on both of them. She looks down at her hands, tries to count out her breathing.

“I was just trying to keep us from getting killed, Walter,” Toby said, his tone lower now, more even but not any gentler. “If you didn’t notice, you kind of led us into a stand-off today.”

There’s a pause, and she wonder if they’re done. She looks up and finds that familiar resolute stare in Walter’s eye. “If you’d just done as I’d said -”

“Stop.” She snaps, her own words ringing through her head so hard she has to take a moment. “My head is killing me and this catfight is making it worse. Walt, that guy could have shot either one of us. Doc was just trying to get us out of there alive.”

She can feel Toby’s gaze on her, but she focuses on Walter. His eyes flit down, and he presses his lips together before he looks at her, then at Toby, then back again. “We’re not working for the government anymore. We need to be more careful.”

The words feel like an gut punch, and she doesn’t know what to say.

Toby looks at him incredulously, “It’s a little hard to be careful when we’re taking jobs that have us outgunning John McClane. With no guns!”

Walter frowns again, opens his mouth and she really can’t handle this anymore. Not tonight. She reaches up and grabs Toby’s arm to steady herself as she stands up, keeps her eyes intently on Walter. “You guys can finish this tomorrow, when my head's not about to split open. Can one of you drive me home?”

Walter’s head dives down, he stares at his feet and when he looks back at her he looks apologetic, almost more apologetic than Toby did an hour earlier, but Toby just grabs her hand gently and pulls her towards him, towards the back door.

 *

She jolts awake from flashes of cocking guns, and the feel of her head hitting concrete; it’s the middle of the night and she feels like she needs to throw up. She’d waited for the headache to go away before she went to bed, doctor’s orders. But now she can’t decide if she needs a bin or a glass of water, crawls out of bed either way. She can feel faint burn of grazed skin on her arm. Her apartment is cool, thanks to high ceilings and open windows, and she appreciates the cold beneath her feet as she makes her way to the kitchen.

She doesn’t see him at first, there’s no light except for the glow from the streetlight that’s slipping through the blinds, but he’s sprawled out on her couch, arm hugging a pillow that he hunted down himself. She told him to go home, but she’s not surprised he didn’t listen.

In the kitchen she gulps down a large glass of water, then another, and then refills it before heading back to her room. It’s dark but it doesn’t matter, she still stops in front of him, watches him for a moment, relishes in the quiet darkness of her apartment. She can just make out the outline of his face, but in her mind she fills in the rest, the droop of his lips, the scruff on his cheeks. She imagines his reaction if he were to wake up right now; remembers his face when he realised she was bleeding. She puts the glass down on her coffee table, next to his phone, heads back to bed.

****************************************

He meets her at the beach the next evening. She’s been stuck inside all day, supposedly for her own day. He made her promise she would rest, and she has been resting, she’s been resting so much that she’s bored out of mind. And when he rings her with dinner plans, she jumps at the chance, even though she doesn’t much care for sand and crowds, to meet him there.

He drops himself next to her with an apology for being late and two large burgers in a paper bag. She’d woken up late this morning, and he’d already left, a washed, empty cup drying on her dish-rack. He passes on well-wishes from Paige and Ralph and Sly, and noticeably avoids mentioning Walter’s name at all. She wonders if they’ve even talked today. Walter had called her earlier, concerned and sheepish, but definitely not apologising. Not that she wants him to. 

They settle into a silence and watch the sun set. She tries to remember the last time she was at a beach, and she swears it wasn’t last Christmas, but that’s the only thing she can remember as she feels the warm sand between her toes, and smells the ocean in front of her. Miracles and gifts and family.

He waves a hand in front of her face, knuckles still scraped and bruised, and for a second she fights the urge to drop her burger and take it instead. And it’s not until she turns to him that she realises he’s been saying something, asking her something, concern furrowed into his brow.

****************************************

She stays home for a few days, doctor’s orders and also Walter’s. It seems to be the only thing they’ve agreed on in months. Days feel like weeks though, her apartment turns into a heat trap during the day, and most of her tools are at the garage anyway. When she comes back, everyone is too excited that she’s there to notice that the denim shirt hanging loosely off her shoulder is actually Toby’s, acquired who knows how long ago by way of finders keepers.

When she does come back, things feel different. Cabe is already there when she arrives, having what looks like a serious conversation with Walter and yeah he’s been around a bit when he’s not busy with his new job, but never this early.

At her own desk there’s a file waiting for her. And she picks it up, realises it’s a rap sheet. For the guys they’ve been working for all summer.

Suddenly she feels Toby step behind her, feels his chest against her shoulder. She wants to scold him about invading her personal space, but before she can say anything she takes a breath, involuntarily. He smells nice, like shampoo and cologne and like the shoulder she fell asleep on two nights ago when he brought her dinner again. She glances up, catches him smiling down at her, like he knows a secret. No, like he’s sharing one.

He reaches an arm around and takes hold of the file in her hand, and brings it a little closer.

“Walter has _graced_ us with the real names of our clients. This whole time we've been working for them, he's been gathering intel so we can nail them. That's why Cabe's here.”

There’s a shuffle of chairs and feet and she looks up to see Cabe making his way towards her. And the next thing she knows Toby is no longer behind her.

Cabe comes and stands over her desk, doesn’t say anything for a moment, just watches her. And she lets him, continues skimming the rap sheet, feels a little bit sicker the longer she reads. When he speaks it’s almost a relief, so she can stop reading.

“So, you and the Doc, huh?”

She does stop, her fingers gripping slightly tighter around the folder in her hands and she lifts her chin slowly. Of all the people they work with, she hadn’t expected it to be him. Paige, probably; Sylvester, maybe. Even Walter was more likely.

He’s nearby, she knows. Partially because she can’t see him at his desk, but also because the kitchen is closest to her and definitely within earshot. Especially now, when Paige is out with Ralph, and Walter and Sly are too busy to make any noise. The whole place suddenly feels too quiet for her.

Cabe’s watching her carefully, expression vague but open. He’s not prodding or pulling but she knows he must have a reason for asking her which also means he’s not going to leave until he gets an answer.

She wants to brush it off, deny it, dismiss it. She wants to say it loudly, so it echoes between the walls. Maybe hopefully he’ll stop looking at her like _that_ when he thinks she doesn’t notice. Maybe it’ll be easier to stop her breath from hitching when he grazes her side on the couch, or whenever he grabs her hand to stop her walking away.

But she’s nothing if not self-aware. She’s spent years honing that because she knows what delusion does to people, what it does to kids who wait too long, what it does to adults who try too hard, what it does to geniuses who get lost too often.

And it’s _not_ nothing that she’s tuned into his movements, around the garage, around their homes. That she notices when he moves, when he yawns, when he stretches his arms and his shirt rides up. It’s not nothing that they’ve been spending more time together than ever before and contrary to everything she thought she’s not getting sick of him, that time with him has become an easy comfort more often than not. He likes to talk, sometimes too much, but his voice fills the space around her, padding the sharp silence that’s usually there. It’s not nothing that she thinks about what might have been, what could be, that she spends too much time remembering what his lips tasted like once, wondering if it would be different now.

“I think so?”

He looks surprised, his own unique brand of it in the form of a raised eyebrow, slightly wider eyes. And then he frowns, “Are you sure that’s wise? Happy, I trust your judgement, but the whole team is vulnerable right now.”

She bites her lips, swallows back a lump of hostility that’s formed suddenly, “It’s not really anyone’s business.”

She drops her eyes, begins shuffling around things on her desk so he doesn’t have to see that maybe she’d expected more from him. He’s barely been here a year, he might know Walter, but he doesn’t know her, or Toby.

“Toby means well but he can be a time-bomb –”

Her head snaps up, and she doesn’t even try holding back the bubbling resentment she’s feeling now. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. _I’ve_ known him for years; I trust him. He doesn’t take risks with things this important.” His voice is low, and forceful, and she’s even surprising herself. Because she means it, she believes it, and she didn’t even realise it until now.

Cabe’s gaze softens, until he’s almost smiling at her. “Well, you sound pretty sure to me.”

“I-”

“I just wanted to make sure,” He nods his head like he’s tipping a hat, and walks away before she can say anything else. Her eyes follow him, as he meets Toby, now standing halfway between their desks with half a smile and a coffee in hand. Cabe slows, says something to him, and Toby nods, but never once taking his eyes off her.

When Cabe walks away, up the stairs, up to see Walter; Toby steps towards her. She struggles to find something, anything to busy herself with, suddenly shy about it all.

“I’m impressed.”

“By what?” She’s still avoiding his gaze, but she sees him put his cup on her desk and she feels him take a step closer.

“My protégé is a quick learner. Being able to read someone’s true intentions so easily, I went to grad school for that y’know,” He’s balancing between playful and sincere, and she has to resist smiling, because he is spectacularly awful at being subtle.

“You’re right to trust me Happy,” he continues, his voice lowers as he leans closer to her still. “You, _us_ , this is important to me.”

She takes a step back, and looks him in the eye, lets herself smile this time. “I know what you meant, Doc. You’re not that cryptic.”

* * *

 

_**September** _

It’s been a week since and Cabe has been at the garage more and more, and the cut on her head has mostly healed, although her arm is still sore and Walter’s still insisting that he’s fine and she’s can’t stop thinking about Cabe’s words, and Toby’s.

It’s been a week of getting rid of anything they had done for those scumbags, and working on her bike, and when she asks him if he wants to get Chinese and watch a movie tonight she’s just hoping maybe they can all go back to normal.

Except she’s not quite sure what normal is. Because normal used to be getting annoyed when Toby wouldn’t shut up, not imagining what awful wise-cracks he might tell when he wasn’t there. Normal used to be always enjoying her own time and space, not sometimes wishing she could share it.

But now normal has become sitting on her couch as he unpacks the giant bag of Chinese food that’s just come to the door. They’ve ordered the usual, enough food for about four people plus a double serving of egg rolls. They’re going to be hot, she knows, they’re always steaming when they arrive so she’s learnt to eat them last. It’s the best part anyway.

She’s taking a mouthful of her chow mein, focusing on the screen in front of her, when she hears him yelp.

He looks ridiculous, blowing out erratically, half an egg roll in a napkin in his hand, the other one fanning his mouth. He points to the water on the table desperately; she follows his fingers, and looks back at him. It really serves him right; he’s always jumping in without thinking. Always hoping for the best. Always too confident.

She’s holding the bottle of water in her hand, and he’s waving at her, eyes wide, muttering something about his oesophagus and then she just drops it. The water. The last brick. Whatever. She thinks maybe she hears it fall to the floor, but she’s not even thinking about it, rather she’s stretching herself to him, hands coming up to his neck and she presses her lips to his, firmly. His mouth was already half open, but it tenses when she kisses him, only for a moment, before it slackens, opens further and he kisses her back. Like he’s been waiting for it. His waving hands settle at her waist, pull her closer so she’s propped up on her knees.

She feels a moan deep in her chest, and pulls away. He’s staring at her incredulously, and the whole thing feels so eerily familiar, but this time she can’t get herself to say anything and she stares back.

“That works too,” he says slowly. His hands are still on her waist, gripping tightly. Hers have dropped to his shoulders; she pushes off as she moves back to where she was, presses herself against the far corner of the couch, half wishing she could be swallowed up by it.

“Do you want to-” he asks, his eyes heavy on her.

“Let’s just eat,” she replies too quickly.

He nods, a few times like he’s convincing himself, bends down to pick up the bottle that she dropped and takes a long gulp. She glances over, his eyes are closed, his lips wrapped around the bottle, still red from being wrapped around hers seconds ago. She drags her eyes away, back to her food.

Later, she picks an egg roll out of the box, when it’s definitely cool, and takes a bite. It tastes like him. (She knows it’s the other way around. But her lips are still tender and her legs still feel ever so slightly like jelly.)

*

Hours later, the movie is over, and the take out is finished, every last crumb of the egg rolls too. He’s switched the channel to some late night talk show, and they both watch in heavy silence.

She gets up, legs feeling more solid now, and grabs all of the trash from dinner to take it to the kitchen. She doesn’t even realise he’s followed her until she feels his hand on her back, fingers warm through her thin tank top. She turns around quickly, shoulders high.

The lights are brighter in her kitchen, and they reflect off the tiles and also in his eyes. He looks down at her and she feels naked, like he can see all of her right now, like she’s being examined, but also kind of like she’s being understood. Because he’s asking so many questions with the slow blink of his eyes and the slightly pursing of his lips and she now realises that she wants to answer every single one of them.

And then his hands are on her jaw and his lips are on hers and it happens fast, too fast almost, it takes her a moment to catch up. A moment to realise that this is the first time he’s kissed her. That it’s different, when she’s not taking him by surprise, when they’re both pushing and pulling at the same time, that she likes it.

And then she lifts her arms, pushes her hands between their bodies, up his chest. She can feel his heart pounding, or maybe that’s hers. And she tilts her neck up, wants to taste more of him, and he pulls her even closer to him until she has no choice but to move her arms up further, wrap them around his neck. She needs to breathe, needs to take a moment, and she bites his lower lip, pulls a little to rein him in. He groans low and deep, and she can feel it vibrate between them and no she really doesn’t want to slow down at all. But she uses it, lets go of his mouth, but not of him.

She exhales slowly, shakily, flutters her eyes open and finds his still closed, mouth half open like he’s in disbelief, and it takes all that she has not to kiss him again. To kiss the disbelief right off him, to kiss him until she can feel it in her bones.

“Do you still-?” She can’t believe she’s asking this now, she’s can’t believe she can’t even finish the sentence like she’s in junior high.

He opens his eyes, and locks them on her, nods vehemently. “Yeah. Do you-”

She swallows, “I think so,” she bites her lip, looks up at him and wonders whether this could be a new normal. “Yes.”

And his eyes light up and then he’s kissing her again. More deeply, more urgently, _more_.

*

It’s later. She’s not sure how much, she’s not really sure of anything anymore except that she’s definitely found new uses for that mouth of his.

He’s talking now. She’s not really paying attention and a small part of her feels bad but more of her feels drained and warm and so utterly content. He’s rubbing her arm so gently she’s surprised she’s not already asleep. But there’s no way she can sleep, not now. Her head is on his chest, and she can feel his heartbeat, steady and still beating a little too fast. She can feel the same in her own chest.

“Hey,” he says, squeezing her elbow gently. She lifts her head, rests on her chin, looks at him with wide open eyes and realises she’s a little bit terrified.

“What are you thinking?” He asks.

She bites her lip; she’s not great at putting her thoughts into words and then letting them out and right now is no exception. So instead she puts her hands on his chest, pushes herself up so she’s leaning over him.

“I’m thinking about how to get you out of my bed,” she says dryly, and there’s a split second, she can see it in his eyes, where he’s unsure if she’s being serious, and so she drops her lips to his. She can still taste herself in his mouth and she presses harder, licks into his mouth and hopes that if she can’t tell him what she’s really thinking then maybe she can show him instead.

He moves his hand to her shoulders, pushes her up as he breathes heavily. Her lungs are burning too. He smirks, shakes his head slightly.

“Well, _that’s_ not gonna work,” he tries to say straight-faced, but his eyes keep flitting down to her lips too much for him to pull it off.

But he’s getting the hang of it. She raises her eyebrow, reaches one hand down under the sheets, finds him already half-hard.

He inhales sharply, “Jesus, Happy,” he looks up at the ceiling blinks a couple of times to gather himself then locks his eyes with her again. “Nope. But you can keep trying.”

She rolls her eyes, almost misses that he reaches up to pull her face back down to his.

He does finally get out of her bed the next morning. At the same time as she does when he goes to make coffee as she takes a shower. And she thinks maybe it’s still too soon.

****************************************

That night he lifts her up onto the counter in her kitchen, kisses her mouth, her neck, the skin just above her neckline. She wraps her legs around him, heels of her boots digging into his back and she’s glad she had the sense of mind to wear shoes she’d be able to kick off later. She’s just about to pull at his t-shirt when the doorbell finally rings and he has to slowly detach himself from her.

And then it’s like they’re back to yesterday just with a different film and different take out and she’s suddenly not sure how to _sit_ next to him. But he shuffles closer to her, so close that she’s practically on his lap, and she hears him mutter something about how long he’s been waiting to do this or wanting to do this or something. To be honest, she can’t even sure he said it at all or whether it’s just the voice inside her head, sounding a bit too much like him.

When the food is gone there’s no preamble; he licks his lips before bringing them down to her neck. She closes her eyes, away from the film still playing; lets herself drown in the feeling for a moment. She lets her mind go over the day, normal in every way except that she woke up next to him; that they looked at each other across the garage like they were in on a joke no one else knew; that she has a beautiful bike to work on and she still couldn’t wait to leave tonight. Normal can wait, she decides, turns herself so she can reach him properly.

****************************************

She blinks her eyes open, squints again the Sunday morning light flooding in through the curtains (awful, loud, ugly curtains) and remembers where she is, why there’s a warm body pressed behind her, why she feels both exhausted and exhilarated at the same time.

She lifts her head, moves her shoulder so she can shift her whole body around and finds him smiling at her through sleepy eyes.

“Are you watching me sleep? Perv,” she mutters, but she can’t help her lips quirking up into a smile.

He looks like he’s about to reply, something stupid probably, but then he inhales sharply and instead of saying anything he brings his hand up from her waist to her cheek, leans over and kisses her firmly. His breath is awful, undoubtedly hers is too, but she can’t bring herself to care, can’t bring herself to think about anything that’s not him and his hands, moving back down now, fingers grazing under her breasts, and she pushes her chest to him.

****************************************

She and Toby manage to corner Walter upstairs. He insists he’s fine before Toby even opens his mouth, which doesn’t surprise her. Toby’s said he’s tried to have this conversation half a dozen times now, and he never gets anywhere.

“He’s right,” she hears herself saying, tries to catch up with her mouth. Both Toby and Walter look at her, surprised, and she swallows. “Doc’s right, Walt. You need help.”

“I can handle it.”

“When was the last time you had a full night’s sleep? When was the last time you drove a car? You’re not handling this. You should talk to someone.”

“Who am I going to talk to, _Toby_?” Walter says, the words out of his mouth before he can stop them and at least, in his defence, he looks like he regrets it straight away.

She turns, sees Toby and a look on his face she barely recognises. He’s hurt. He’s really, genuinely hurt and she thinks about how much this all means to him. How much Walter means to him.

“Fine, whatever. Ignore the professional advice from your best friend,” Toby mutters, goes out and down the stairs before she has a chance to stop him. She wants to follow him. Feels the urge, new, but not unfamiliar, to press herself against his chest until his heartbeat settles.

Instead she turns back to Walter, takes several mores steps closer.

“You don’t get to push us away like that. He’s just trying to help; we’re _all_ just trying to help. And don’t insult me by saying you’re fine. You haven’t slept, you’re not yourself, you’re putting yourself in danger. You’re putting all of us in danger.”

Her voice cracks near the end and she swallows down the series of curse words she wants to yell at him. Because he doesn’t get to do this. He doesn’t get to make them all a family and then rip it apart.

“Toby says I’m experiencing symptoms of PTSD... That discussing it can help, but there’s nothing to talk about. I survived. Physically, I’m fine,” he shrugs at her.

She narrows her eyes, “How do you feel when you get into a car?”

Walter shakes his head, “I don’t see...”

“Tell me. Put it into words.”

He sighs, closes his eyes for a moment before looking back at her. “My chest tightens, my heart rate increases. I’m more aware of the risks involved. I guess I understand what Sylvester feels now. Logically I know that the risks involved with driving haven’t increased.”

“But you still feel like you’re drowning. Like you can’t do anything to stop it.” She softens her voice, knows what it’s like for your bed to feel like nails, your lungs like iron weights, your thoughts like sandpaper. She’s too much like Walter in a way, knows exactly why he’s doing this, and exactly why it needs to stop.

“I couldn’t,” he admits, soundly wholly unlike himself. And for once, it’s a good thing.

*

When she leaves, she leaves him to figure out his own next step. He’s smart enough, and more than that, he needs to do it himself. She knows him enough to know that.

She stops short when she sees Toby, sitting on tops of the stairs. She’d assumed he’d gone back down but now she feels foolish. He’s persistent and caring and he’s not going to abandon a friend just because they barked at him.

She sits down next to him, presses her shoulder against his, and immediately feels him relax a little.

She takes his hand, laces their fingers together. Tries to imagine what he would say if their places were reversed. “It’s not your job to keep everyone from falling apart.”

He doesn’t say anything, and she’s not sure he believes her. But she's determined to keep trying.

****************************************

The next two days are blurs of smirks and glances and wandering hands. They go home, his, hers, call for take-out, don’t leave till the morning.

There’s a ringing somewhere around her, and she fights it with pillows and covers, until it stops. It’s Toby that wakes her up, when he unwraps his arms from around her, rolls out of bed. Walter wants to go for a drive, he explains, presses a kiss to her cheek, another to her lips, before heading to the bathroom. Her eyes are too tired to open, and she reaches out for her phone, flutters them just enough to read the time. It’s not even 5am.

*

It’s just past noon, and she’s in the kitchen when the back door swings open and Walter and Toby come through. She takes a couple steps, stretches her neck out to check for herself. They look tired, drained, but also lighter somehow. Walter especially. She hadn’t realised how darker his eyes had been these past few months, how tight his lips, until she can see him now and he’s part-way back to himself.

Toby looks relieved. That’s all she can say. He looks like he just escaped devastation. She thinks how long this summer must have been for him. It was for her and she only realised how bad it was half-way through.

Walter walks past her, gives her a smile, tight-lipped and bittersweet, but a smile and she knows it’s good. It’s a start. Paige gets up as soon as she sees him. She concerned, asks questions with wide eyes and Walter reassures her. Or tries to.

Toby gives her a similar smile, except it means something totally different. He walks past her, probably more than ready to slump down behind his desk and give his brain something new and detached to feed on.

“Doc,” she says softly. He’s still close enough to hear her, and turns around.

She jerks her head towards the back of the garage, Walter’s rocket, behind the ramp, anywhere that’s away from prying eyes. She just… she just wants him to herself for a moment. “Come here a minute.”

His lips quirk up in recognition, and he follows her back.

When she’s satisfied with their privacy, she stops, turns and puts her hands on his chest to stop him too.

“How’d it go?” She asks quickly, voice low; wants to know, _needs_ to know.

He exhales, looks back to the front of the garage before he turns back to her and nods a little. “He’s going to be okay. He’s not ready to get behind the wheel yet, but he’ll get there.”

She lets a wave of relief wash over her, smiles into it.

“You okay?” he asks, and she opens her eyes back to him, finds him gazing down at her.

“Let’s get dinner,” she says in a single breath.

He frowns, looks a little confused. “Uh, it’s -”

“Tonight,” she clarifies, “Actual dinner. Not take out.”

His foreheads smooths out as he realises what she’s suggesting. “Like a date?” He asks, lips quirking again.

“That’s what we’re doing isn’t it?” She asks, raises an eyebrow.

When he leans down to kiss her she’s ready and waiting. Her hands move up, find the back of his neck, hold him close. When he reaches up to cup her cheek, she tilts her head to reach him better, pushes her body closer to his.

He pulls away, hands still cupping her face, stares at her and she lets him, stares back. His mouth is open still, like he wants to say something, or so many things. And she knows what it is. Words that have been cut off and interrupted and drowned out by caution. She wonders what the words would sound like rolling off his tongue when she’s really listening. She wonders how they’ll taste in her own mouth.

She thinks about how a year ago she was rolling her eyes and six months ago she was holding his hand and now she can just kiss him and mean it.

So she does.

*********************************************

 


End file.
